To the Ends of the Earth
by lirodendron
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Mycroft comes to John with a revelation about Sherlock's death that leads John on a desperate search for the truth. Final chapter posted (sorry the last part is so long, I couldn't find a good break point for it). T for language and violence, including reference to torture (but not graphic descriptions of).
1. Chapter 1

John had sworn he wouldn't return to the flat. He didn't think he could bear it, to be surrounded by all the trappings of their life together, all Sherlock's things now abandoned and unused. How could he? He was burdened with enough memories as it was without encountering reminders in tea mugs and old clothes and microscope slides every time he turned around.

But it ended up that staying away was worse. He could not afford to live in London on his own, even with his pension and the salary from the surgery – he wasn't sure he could continue there anyway. The idea of another flatmate was unthinkable. Losing Sherlock was painful enough, but to live away from all the places they had gone together, all the things they had shared, staying in a cheap room in a soulless suburban neighborhood, it made him feel like everything was truly gone.

He lasted a couple weeks, and then asked Mrs. Hudson if he could move back in. She seemed relieved at his return, and continued to charge him only the portion of rent he had been paying when he and Sherlock had lived there together. She seemed nearly as bereft as he. He knew she had had sons, once, and that they were gone now, along with her monster of a husband. He sensed that she had considered him and Sherlock, especially Sherlock, as replacements for her lost boys. Oh, she loved them both but she had had a special place in her heart for Sherlock – he could do no wrong in her eyes.

John could hardly begrudge her that. Now she fussed over John like he was the only thing she had left in the world. Maybe he was. He tolerated her attentions, appreciated them even, but did not have the emotional energy to give her much back. She seemed happy enough just to have him there. She had tidied the flat in his absence, but had left his and Sherlock's things largely untouched. He felt like a ghost in his own home, moving silently through the rooms, unwilling or unable to change or get rid anything.

He took to sleeping in Sherlock's old bedroom, drinking from his favorite mug, anything that would maintain that connection, make him feel like something of that old life was left. He knew it was stupid and maudlin, but he didn't care. Aside from Mrs. Hudson, he didn't have much contact with his and Sherlock's old circle. He didn't have much contact with anyone, really – he was alone again. Molly had virtually disappeared, likely nearly as paralyzed by grief as he was. He resented her for it - she had no _right_ to be as hurt as he – then hated himself for thinking such things. Either way he couldn't face her, and it appeared that she couldn't face him either.

As for Mycroft, he hadn't had a word, which was a source of both bitterness and relief. He blamed Mycroft wholeheartedly for Sherlock's death – there was no else left alive to blame. Mycroft knew it, too. John hoped he blamed himself, hoped he drowned in his own guilt. If he saw the man again…well he didn't know what he would do, and it was probably best that neither of them found out.

The only one he had any real contact with was Lestrade. He blamed Lestrade too, but the man seemed to accept it, patiently and with grace. He demanded that Lestrade investigate the incident. The prevailing story was that the poor, put-upon actor Richard Brook, whose life Sherlock had ruined with his lies, had been unable to stand it any longer and had shot himself on the roof in front of Sherlock. Sherlock had felt so guilt-ridden after this that he had confessed his fraud and taken his own life.

"You know that's not true, Greg," John had pleaded with Lestrade. "You know Sherlock wasn't a fake, you saw him do too many miraculous things! And if he was truly that level of psychopath, murdering people just so he could solve the crimes, how guilty would he have felt over someone else's suicide? You know it's not right, you know Moriarty was real! And what about his mobile? He was talking to me on it right before he jumped, but no one found it. It wasn't on the roof, it wasn't on the ground, it wasn't in his pocket. Where did it go? You know this is all wrong!"

Lestrade had sighed heavily. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past month. "I'm sorry, John. You're right, I should have believed him. There are a lot of fishy things going on here, but I don't know where to start. I have no leads, John. The sad fact is the only person likely to be able to solve this was Sherlock Holmes. I promise, I'll do what I can – I owe him that much. But don't expect a miracle."

As much as John resented Lestrade for his role in the whole affair, he had to commend the man for being honest. And Lestrade seemed to be the only who really understood him and Sherlock, had taken them at face value. The Detective Inspector began to come to John with cases, give him a little work, mainly as a medical specialist but sometimes as a consultant. John wasn't sure if it was an act of pity or desperation on Lestrade's part, now that his genius was gone, but it was the only kind of sympathy John could tolerate. And it kept him busy.

One night, several months after Sherlock's death, the doorbell rang. The doorbell never rang anymore. John was taken aback to find Sarah standing on the stoop. He hadn't seen her in a half a year, had heard she was abroad doing Doctors Without Borders or some other such thing. He had felt guilty about how things had ended between them and decided it was best for them both to just let her fade out of his life.

Now, though, she rushed in and threw her arms around him. "Oh John, I'm so sorry. So very sorry!" The raw, untempered honesty of her reaction nearly overcame him and he had to push down a lump in his throat and pull away from the hug to prevent himself from breaking down entirely.

She was the last person he had expected to see, and he was surprised how grateful he was to see her. She did not seem to expect him to say anything and invited herself in, going up the stairs and into the flat while keeping her hand on his arm, never breaking contact. He sat on the sofa and she knelt beside him resting her forehead against his temple. "I know it's not true," she whispered. "I didn't believe it for a second. He saved my life."

She had never resented Sherlock the way his other girlfriends had. Not that she had ever really _been_ his girlfriend – she had been too smart for that. She understood, better than he had at the time, the nature of his relationship with Sherlock and had known better than to put herself in the middle of it. Still, she cared about him, and accepted Sherlock as part of his life, as the most important part, in a way no other girl had. And Sherlock, while jealous of the time John spent with her, had not hated her the way he had loathed the other women John had gone out with, never tried to actively get rid of her.

Even now, she knew exactly what to do. She didn't ask him how he was doing, or for details of what happened. She didn't try to talk about Sherlock beyond her simple declaration of faith in him. She just sat there, hand on his arm, head resting against his, completely silent, sharing his pain. No one had ever done that for him before.

John felt the walls he had carefully constructed over the past few months begin to crumble. He had not had a complete meltdown of the cathartic sobbing variety that he had always assumed you were supposed to have as part of the grieving process; he had hardly even cried since the day it happened except for when he said goodbye at the grave. Even now, he did not lose it entirely – he was afraid if he lost control completely he might well and truly go mad. But tears began to roll down his cheeks, silently, and he let them come, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feeling of Sarah's heartbeat against his shoulder.

He didn't know how long they sat like that, but at some point they fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning they were tangled up on the sofa, half sitting, half laying. He hadn't slept through the night without a strong pill and a strong drink for months.

"Oh God, John, I'm sorry," Sarah said, clambering off of him. "I didn't realize I was so tired."

"Me neither," he lied. He felt marginally better this morning. A little less empty. It was good to not be alone, even for just an evening.

She smiled and went to make some tea, which they drank in silence. When they were done she said, "Look, I just got in last night – came straight here, of course. But I need to go round my mum's, talk to work about some things… do you want me to come back later, though?"

"Yes, that would be…nice." He was surprised to hear himself say, hesitantly, "Would it be okay if you…if you planned to spend the night again? Not…well, you know…just to stay…"

"Of course I will, John." She grinned ruefully and rubbed the back of her neck. "But better be in a bed this time, otherwise my spine might call a strike!"

He chuckled, then caught himself. He hadn't laughed since…well, he just hadn't. He felt guilty about it, now.

She seemed to notice his ambivalence and cleared off quickly, though not in a huff, kissing him on the cheek and promising to text him when she knew what time she'd be in. "I'll pick us up a Chinese on the way back," she said, really meaning, _You've lost too much weight_, and then was gone.

The day passed fairly quickly for John, more quickly than days had been passing for him. He had some work to do for Lestrade, requiring a large amount of background research on degenerative bone disorders, which was a good distraction. He had tea with Mrs. Hudson, who mercifully did not mention his visitor, although he was certain she knew all about it. She rambled on about drama at her bridge club and he allowed himself to be soothed by the steady stream of meaningless chatter.

He was in the shower when the buzzer rang again that evening. It was a bit earlier than Sarah had said she'd be back. He should have given her a spare key. "Mrs. Hudson can you get that?" he yelled over the running water, and was gratified to hear the door open and shut downstairs.

He rinsed quickly and threw on jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt, and emerged from the bathroom toweling his hair. "Sorry, didn't expect you so –" He stopped short. It wasn't Sarah. It was Mycroft.

John's reaction was instantaneous. In a second he had crossed the room, slamming the older man against the wall with one hand, while relieving him of his umbrella and using it to pin him back by his throat with the other. Mycroft put his hands up and did not struggle.

"What. The fuck. Are you doing here?" John growled at him, breathing heavily. "How_ dare_ you come here?"

Mycroft wheezed and John realized he was cutting off the man's air supply. He let up on the umbrella infinitesimally. Slowly the red fog of rage receded, just slightly. He realized that Mycroft was alone. There was no Anthea on her ever-present mobile. There was no car waiting for him outside. In addition, Mycroft had come there…Mycroft almost never came to the flat, though he had it bugged regularly. When he wanted to see John he typically had him brought to him.

"What's going on?" he demanded again, still not releasing the Holmes brother.

Mycroft coughed. "While I appreciate your anger at me, one typically waits to find out one's visitor's business before attacking him," he said primly. "Now, if you will let me go I will tell you why I am here and then you can decide whether you would like to continue in your attempt to murder me."

John did so, none too gently. "I had no intention of murdering you, that would be far too quick."

"Nevertheless." Mycroft took a moment to compose himself, smoothing his coat and retrieving his umbrella from the floor.

"Alright, start talking," John said.

Mycroft appeared uncomfortable, which was a very unusual state for him. "There's no easy way to say this…it's about my brother."

John closed his eyes. Sherlock was the last thing he wanted to talk about right now, especially with Mycroft. "What, you came here looking for my forgiveness? You want me to absolve you of your part in his death? Well, you're not going to get it. You can rot with your guilt for all I care."

Mycroft lowered his voice, sadly. "John, you're right, I do need your forgiveness, in more ways than you know. I should have protected Sherlock, shouldn't have let him… but that's not what I'm here for and I don't expect you to give it to me in any case. There is something far more urgent at stake right now."

"Well?" John said coldly.

"It seems that my brother… that he was not so dead as he seemed after his fall off of the roof of St. Bart's." Mycroft said the words hurriedly, almost wincing.

John's stomach dropped. "_What_? Say that again," he said in a dangerously low whisper, advancing on Mycroft once more.

"Sherlock did not commit suicide," Mycroft repeated. "He didn't die that day."

"But I…I saw… I felt…That's not possible." John felt his anger rising again. "What kind of game are you playing, Mycroft? Because I swear I will kill you if you don't tell me what is going on right now!"

There was a flash of genuine fear in Mycroft's eyes. "You saw and felt what Sherlock wanted to you to see and feel, apparently," Mycroft told him.

"You're telling me…" John said slowly, his voice growing very quiet and hard, "that Sherlock faked his own death in front of me and most of London, and that you knew about it this _whole time_, and you didn't tell me?"

"Not this whole time," Mycroft protested. "He only got in contact with me about a month ago. I thought he was dead the same as you, although I certainly had some suspicions. I still don't know how he managed it. He wouldn't tell me, and even with my intellect I haven't been able to puzzle it out. I think he enjoys making me struggle."

"Shut up, just tell me where he is!" John shouted in a slightly strangled voice. "Why did he do it? Why hasn't he come to me?! Take me to him right now!"

"John, you must calm down," Mycroft said. "You need to listen to me."

"Oh no, I've done enough listening to you. You take me to him this instant. I need to punch him. Or kiss him. Or both." John was looking frantically for his keys and jacket.

"John!" Mycroft boomed. "He did it for you! Now will you be quiet for one second and listen to what I have to say?"

John froze. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm, despite the fact that his heart was still racing.

Mycroft continued. "Moriarty…he had set a trap for Sherlock. If Sherlock did not admit he was a fraud publicly and kill himself, Moriarty had men with irrevocable orders to shoot and kill you. And Mrs. Hudson. And Detective Inspector Lestrade. That's why he did it. And that's why he hasn't contacted you. The orders are still out there, Moriarty's network is still active even if he is dead. If he had let you know, let anyone know he was still alive before he took care of Moriarty's henchmen and cleared his name, you would be killed."

John sank into a chair, stunned. "That's why he said those things…all those horrible things."

Mycroft nodded. "Now do you see why I couldn't tell you before?"

"Wait, why are you telling me now?" John gave him a piercing glare. "If the danger is over, Sherlock would have come himself. And if it wasn't, he never would have let you come here and endanger me. Where is he, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed deeply. "John, this isn't easy. He came to me a month ago, made me swear that I would say nothing to you or anyone else. He was trying to track down the rest of Moriarty's organization but was having trouble locating his second-in-command. He thought if he could find him, he could get the proof he needed to destroy Moriarty's legacy once and for all and exonerate himself, so that he could come back. All his leads had gone cold. He needed my help. I gave him all the information I could, and he set off on his hunt. I haven't heard from him in three weeks, John. Not a whisper or a rumour. He's disappeared, completely."

John swallowed, attempting to contain the rage that was again rising inside of him. "So what you are saying," he said, his voice clipped, "is that you have come here to tell me that the man I thought was dead for the past three months, has been alive and well for at least two of those months, but may in fact be…dead…now."

Mycroft had the good grace to look ashamed of himself.

"Why are you telling me this?" John said, maintaining his even tone with great effort.

"I've done all I can to find him without attracting attention. My resources are great, but there's only so much I can do. If I am too obvious then both your lives will be in danger, assuming Sherlock is, in fact, still alive. But you… they've stopped watching you, John. They assumed if he were somehow alive, he would have contacted you by now. You are literally the last person they expect to make a move… and thus you're the only who can. You have to find him, John. You have to find out…" Mycroft trailed off.

John set his jaw. He'd lost Sherlock once, he wasn't about to again. He stood up. "I need something to go on," he said, eerily calm. "A name, a place, something. He could be anywhere."

Mycroft seemed relieved. "Moran. Sebastian Moran. And the last intel I had on Sherlock was that he was in Croatia. Zagreb."

"Sebastian Moran," John repeated. "Croatia. Right." He went into his room – Sherlock's room – and Mycroft followed him.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft hazarded.

John had packed a bag with remarkable efficiency, and had loaded his gun and stuck it in his waistband. "What does it look it like I'm doing? I'm going to find Sherlock."

"Right now?"

"Right now," John said, going into the kitchen and removing a supply of emergency cash from an old tea tin. "Would you prefer that I waited?"

"Not at all. John…" Mycroft looked uncomfortable again. "I want you to know that I…appreciate…what you've done for my brother. All of it. I know your relationship is…complicated, but I've truly come to think of you as part of the family."

John paused, and gave Mycroft a faint smile. "Likewise," he said, and punched him as hard as he could in his ample stomach.

Mycroft doubled over in pain. "Lock up when you leave," John said, and walked out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

John headed immediately to Scotland Yard, on foot. He was running on auto-pilot, too stunned to consider the implications of what he had just learned. Sherlock was dead, then he was alive, now he was missing. It was too much to take in. If he was to be of any use to Sherlock, have any chance of finding him, he couldn't afford to think about what he was feeling right now. He didn't even know what he was feeling, other than that one way or another he wasn't going to stop until he found Sherlock. Alive or… he shelved the thought quickly. Alive. He would find him alive.

He strode into the police station like he owned the place, earning a look of resentment from Anderson and Donovan, who seemed to have transferred their hatred of Sherlock to him. The feeling was mutual. He barged into Lestrade's office, just as the Detective Inspector was putting on his coat and packing up his briefcase. It was well after 8 pm.

"John," he said distractedly, "bit late to talk shop, can it wait till tomorrow? I promised Tricia I'd be home for supper for once and that Westerly case can keep overnight. Frankly I'd rather not talk about it before a meal anyway."

"This isn't about that case. I'm sorry, I know it's late but I need your help and I'm afraid it's rather urgent."

Lestrade caught the edge of steel in John's tone, sighed, and put his briefcase down. Unlike Sherlock, John had not made a habit of bothering him at all hours of the night with matters both trivial and vital. "Are you in trouble, John?" he asked, sitting down and motioning for John to do the same.

John shook his head at the proffered chair. "Not yet," he said grimly. "But I need some information on someone. It's very important, and I can't tell you why I need it."

Lestrade frowned. "John, I need a bit more than that, you of all people…"

"Please, Greg. You have to trust me on this one. Have I ever asked you for something like this, ever before?"

"Well, no, but –"

"Then believe me when I say I absolutely cannot explain why I need this, but if you don't help me we will both regret it for a very long time." There was a pause. "You owe me, Greg."

There it was. John held his breath for a long moment while the DI considered. He knew playing on his guilt over Sherlock was cruel, but he didn't care. The only question was, would it work or would make him so angry that he would refuse to give John anything?

Finally Lestrade let out a long sigh. "All right," he said. "I do trust you, John. But this had better not come back to bite me in the arse. Give me the name and I'll put someone on it first thing."

"No," John shook his head. "It has to be now and it has to be you, only you. No one else can even know I'm looking into anything other than the cases you have assigned to me. No one."

Lestrade groaned. "I'm going to hear about this when I get home…" he muttered. "But fine. Just this once, you understand?"

"Yes, thank you Greg," John said, relieved. "You have no idea how important this is. The name is Sebastian Moran. I need all the records you have on him, everything, from every database."

Lestrade showed no sign of recognition as he typed in the name. "This may take a little while – we just got the interagency information sharing network up and running properly, but it's slow. Might as well have a drink while it runs – I'm going to need one before I can face Tricia."

Shit. Sarah. John had forgotten all about her. He checked his phone – four texts. Mrs. Hudson hadn't even been home to let her in. He cursed under his breath. "I'll take that drink," he told the DI, as he furiously composed a message on his phone.

_So so sorry; had an emergency. Can't explain now but have to go out of town for a bit. You're a saint and an angel. Will ring you when I'm back in town and buy you a proper supper. – JW_

It wasn't enough, he knew it, but what else was he supposed to do? He could hardly drag her into all this. He expected her to text back something on the order of "don't bother" in response, possibly with several rude words, but instead she only sent, _Stay safe, John. I'll have a really expensive restaurant picked out for when you get back. _Saint and angel, he thought, feeling guilty, as Lestrade pressed a drink into his hand.

It was scotch and he hated scotch, but he didn't care. The two men sat, nursing their drinks as the computer did its work. They had seen plenty of each other over the past three months, but they had always been brief meetings to a specific purpose. The silence between them was uncomfortable.

After long minutes, Lestrade cleared his throat. "John… I've been meaning to ask you. Are you…okay? In general? I know things have been difficult for you since…"

John shook his head sharply. "Don't. Please."

The other man put up his hands. "Sorry. Shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's…fine. I just, I can't think about it right now."

Lestrade nodded and lapsed back into deep contemplation of his liquor glass. They were both relieved when the system dinged a few moments later.

"Alright, looks like there is something on him, at least," Lestrade said, motioning John over to the computer. "Sebastian Moran, aged 48, born in Rwanda to a British diplomatic family, schooled at a military school in Edinburgh, went right into the army where he made a name for himself as a sniper in the Falklands War."

"What kind of a name?" John asked, leaning over Lestrade's shoulder.

"A bad one – he was dishonourably discharged for war crimes, including grave robbing and shooting civilian children. Hmm, somehow he escaped any prison sentence for that little piece of work. Daddy must have sorted it for him. Nothing else on him for awhile, then he reappears in Africa a few years later as a safari guide and big game hunter. Got a bit of a reputation there for trouble with the natives, rumours about suspicious deaths among his men and hunting on private land. Busted in Botswana for poaching and smuggling of endangered species – manages to weasel out of incarceration yet again, but loses most of his money to fines and lawsuits and makes a hasty exit from the whole continent."

"Sounds like a real charmer," John said. "Look, what's this one, here at the bottom?"

Lestrade scrolled down and opened another file, interested now despite himself. "Looks like he went to ground after going broke, there's nothing serious on him for another ten years until he pops back up in…Vienna in 2002. Oh, that's interesting… suddenly he's got a nice fat bank account and wealthy Swiss friends. His parents are long dead and didn't leave him an inheritance. Lots of rumours about criminal activities and MI-5 and Europol were both _very_ interested in him, but again, nothing stuck to him. Then about two years ago…that's funny, there's nothing after late 2009."

"What do you mean nothing?"

Lestrade scrolled through results again. "Nothing. No bank accounts, no property holding or rentals, no tax records. It's like he vanished."

"What about Croatia? Is there anything there about him being in Croatia?" John demanded.

"Croatia? No…no, doesn't look like it. John, you have to tell me what this is about. This man is very dangerous – look at all the people associated with him who have disappeared, only to turn up dead thousands of miles away. Wherever he is now, he still has powerful friends – perhaps more powerful than ever."

John shook his head. "I really can't, Greg."

"I can help you," Lestrade insisted. "Whatever you're mixed up in…"

"I'm not the one mixed up in anything. It's better if you don't know, believe me. I swear I will explain to you at some point, but for now the less I say the better. Now, can you print that whole file for me? I need to be going."

Lestrade made a noise of frustration. "Alright, have it your way," he said, sending the documents to the printer and getting up.

John tucked them away in his bag carefully. "You promise, not a word to anyone?"

"God help me, yes, John. But take care of yourself. I don't need another body of someone… someone I know," he corrected quickly. "And try not to _create_ any more bodies either – I can't help you once you're out of the U.K."

"Who says I'm leaving the U.K.?" John asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"That file and your face. Now get out of here before I change my mind."

They shook hands briskly and John left, hailing a taxi to the train station. It would attract less attention than flying, and besides, he wasn't sure exactly where to start, anyway. Croatia was probably his best bet, since Sherlock had definitely been there, but there didn't seem to be a connection with Moran. Was it a wild goose chase that had let him there, or was there something John was missing in the files?

He got on a late train headed for France, figuring maybe he'd go through Vienna on his way to Zagreb and see if he could pick up anything on Moran there, maybe making some other unrelated stops on the way. He'd have to put out that he'd gone on holiday, send some postcards to Mrs. Hudson and Harry, so it would seem a natural thing. Getting away after a loss, trying to distract yourself, that was normal, wasn't it? If anyone was still watching him, he should make sure there was no discernible pattern to his wanderings. Although it would take longer that way, and he wasn't sure how much time Sherlock had.

He paged through the file on the train, while other passengers slept around him. There wasn't much there that Lestrade hadn't summarized, but there were pictures of Moran. He was a tall man, and broad shouldered. Imposing, really. He had dirty blond hair and a perpetually dark tan, and seemed to prefer to dress like he was on safari even when he wasn't. Pretentious, John thought. There were images of him from his young army days, of him posed with various dead large animals, of him at high-level social events – always with a weapon on his hip and a cigarette in his hand.

He pored over the images, and all the information in the reports, looking for anything that might suggest why Sherlock was after him in particular, and why that had led him to Croatia. He knew there had to be something, but he just couldn't see it. Frustrated, he got out his laptop and started Googling random phrases and places from the file, along with "Moran", "Moriarty", "Croatia", and "Sherlock Holmes". Nothing useful.

He was nearly ready to give up and try and get some sleep himself when something in one of the photos caught his eye. He did another quick search. There it was. It was a flimsy connection to be sure, but just the sort of thing Sherlock would have noticed and followed up on. And it was sure to mean something, although he didn't have the first idea what as of this point. He smiled to himself. Now he was thinking like a consulting detective.

He closed his computer and rolled his jacket up behind his head. Despite being incredibly wired from the night's events and the range of feelings he was suppressing, he had a soldier's talent for being able to grab shut-eye in the most stressful and disturbing situations. In fact, he was much more likely to be able to rest when he had a mission in mind than when all was calm and he was at home. He closed his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of the train speeding smoothly beneath the Atlantic, and fell instantly asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

John stepped off the train at Zagreb Central Station feeling more like a zombie than a man. Nearly two continuous days on trains, even with skipping Vienna. He had been impatient for his destination, and while he had taken a slightly less direct route, he hadn't been able to bring himself to make any long unnecessary stops for the sake of secrecy.

He had mailed a couple postcards from the station in Sanremo when he stopped to switch trains, praising the sea air and charming local colour of costal Italy and declaring his intention to spend at least two weeks there before going on to Greece, but he was unwilling to spend time on anything more elaborate. Every minute he delayed was another minute for Sherlock's trail to grow cold. He wished desperately that Mycroft had had more for him, but at least he had a lead now, however tenuous.

Unfortunately it was too late now to check it out, a freezing and starless November night, with a light mist of rain. He made for the nearest pub and choked down some spicy fish stew and a very dark beer that would have been quite agreeable had he been in the mood for enjoying a leisurely meal and local brews. He picked a hostel that didn't look too shifty, almost at random, and crashed with his gun under his pillow and one arm around his bag.

The next morning he went straight to the address he had looked up on the way to Zagreb. It was in an older part of the city, away from the glittering skyscrapers and fashionable shopping concourses of the _nouveau riche_. The streets here were brick or cobble, hard to follow, and constantly changing names, with buildings from the 1600's and on built nearly on top of each other. It didn't help that he didn't read Croatian. But eventually he managed to locate the right street and follow it to a small but brightly painted tobacconist's shop in a busy little neighborhood, far away from where tourists normally strayed.

He glanced at one of the pictures of Moran, then back at the sign, which read "_Lav i Jazavca_" and bore an emerald green coat of arms with gold engraving showing a lion and a badger clashing over a Croatian flag. The words and symbol matched the packaging of the cigarettes peeking over the top of Moran's breast pocket in the photo. Not a common brand, John knew, and in fact had discovered that they were made in the city, in this little shop, and not exported commercially. There were pictures of Moran with the same cigarettes in pictures spanning nearly 15 years.

Of course it could just be a quirk, John thought – lots people have oddly specific tastes in certain items, but why something so obscure from a city he seemed to have no connection to? It had to be something more than just a preference for a certain brand of smokes. Sherlock had certainly thought so, unless some other clue that had escaped John's notice had led him to Croatia. But how to find out? Asking about Moran directly seemed like a dangerous proposition. He would have to go the route of the confidence man, he decided. Making sure his sidearm was in place but hidden, he zipped up his jacket and pushed through the door into the dim little shop.

No other customers were inside, and it looked and smelled every inch the average Eastern European smoke shop, with countless brands of cigarettes, cigars, and pipe tobacco, as well as pipes, and some newspapers, crisps, candy, and other sundries. In short order an elderly man emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a damp cloth. He was fairly tall, with a bristly silver mustache, and was dressed in a suit that must have been 30 years old but was well cared for.

"_Dobro jutro_," he began and then stopped. "English?"

"Yes," John said, relieved.

"What can I do for you, sir?" the man said, in heavily accented but impeccable English.

"You're Mr. Božić? Gregor Božić?" A little internet research had turned up some basic facts about the shop, which was well-regarded locally, and its owner.

"Yes, and you?"

"I'm here on behalf of Mr. Moran. He's very concerned about the lateness of the most recent shipment."

Mr. Božić went pale. "I had orders to hold it, I promise you! It was ready almost two weeks ago, although it is a very small shipment – I did not expect Mr. Moran to order again so soon."

John's heart was pounding. It was working, but this was the critical point. It would be far too easy to give himself away now, and while Mr. Božić was old, John knew another solider when he saw one, and he was quite fit for his age. "Who gave you those orders?"

"The other man, Moran's agent. Not the usual man, but he had all the credentials. I swear, I was only waiting for him to return to send it."

"What man?" John asked, too quickly. "What did he look like?"

"He was very tall and pale, sir. English, like you. He wore a long coat and had dark hair, and cold eyes. He said the usual contact was no longer in Mr. Moran's employ, that he was taking over the position and that I should prepare a shipment immediately. I told him that one was not due for another month, only half the items had arrived, but he said Mr. Moran wanted everything I had at once. I did as he told me, and he said he would return to collect it personally and that I should not send it with anyone else. But that was two weeks ago and I have had no word."

Sherlock! John was certain of it. And he had been alive and well as of two weeks ago. "Did he leave you a name or way to contact him?"

"No, nothing. As usual."

"Good," said John, though his heart sank. "You are to give the shipment to me, at once. I will take it directly to Mr. Moran."

"And how do I know _you_ are the right person?" Mr. Božić said, shrewdly. "Forgive me, but it seems there has been a lot of…turnover… lately. I would hate to make another mistake."

John shifted his jacket to casually reveal his weapon. "You know I am the right person, Mr. Božić because you are a smart man, a man who is not to blame for any lateness of Mr. Moran's goods. And I will be sure to make sure he understands that when I bring the shipment to him."

They looked levelly at one another for a long moment, sizing each other up. John's hand tensed at his hip. At last Mr. Božić nodded curtly. "I will get it immediately. One moment."

He disappeared into the back and returned with two cartons of the _Lav i Jazavca_ brand cigarettes, marked with their distinctive crest. "This is all I have right now."

"Fine, fine," said John. "And the paperwork?"

"What paperwork? Mr. Moran does not like paperwork." He began eying John suspiciously again.

"But you do, don't you Mr. Božić? You keep meticulous records, I'm sure. Mr. Moran is becoming concerned, what with all the… turnover… that they might fall into the wrong hands. I am to keep them safe for you."

John could see anger gathering in Mr. Božić's face, but could also see that he bought the lie. "As you say," he grumbled, and returned with a ledger book. "This is the only copy," he assured John. "Now what about my payment?"

"It will come the usual way. _After_ Mr. Moran has inspected the items. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Božić. Good day." He gathered the cartons and book and strode out of the shop, a lot more calmly than he felt. He made it around the corner and out of sight of the shop before he had to lean against a wall and let his heart rate slow. There were so many ways that could have gone wrong.

He hoped Sherlock had taken care of the original Moran agent quietly – if another shipment hadn't been due for a month when Sherlock had gotten there, that meant that there were probably two more weeks before Moran or Mr. Božić started to suspect something had gone off. If he couldn't find Sherlock in two weeks…well, he couldn't think about that. The next thing to do was to figure out what was really in these boxes, and where they had been headed.

He couldn't do that at a hostel, too exposed. He tucked the ledger book into his bag and headed for an inn, a popular tourist one mentioned in all the guides, quaint and catering to British guests. There wasn't much strange about a London man stocking up on local cigarettes while on holiday, and no one gave him a second glance as he checked in under the name of a dead man from his old platoon.

As soon as he got to his room, he locked it and ripped open the cartons. Row after row of emerald packs stared up at him. Twelve lions and twelve badgers danced on the packages. He dug through the boxes. Six deep in each. He opened one of the cigarette packs. It contained cigarettes. Twenty-one of them. He made a noise of frustration, and checked ten other packs. All the same. It couldn't be a dead end, it just couldn't be.

He chucked one of the packs at the wall in anger and it bounced to the bed, spilling its contents across the duvet. Twenty-one cigarettes, each expertly hand-rolled and embossed with the familiar coat of arms. But…not all the same size. Six of them were a good three centimetres shorter than the others.

"Oh, that's clever…" he muttered, inspecting the empty pack. There, in the bottom right, was a tiny compartment, designed to fit the negative space left by the six shorter cigarettes in the package, just about nine cubic centimetres. Any one inspecting the shipment could take any cigarette out of any package and have it look perfect normal, provided they didn't compare the different sizes.

John ripped the pack open and dug out the tiny compartment. It was padded on the inside and contained a single coin. Chinese, by the look of it, ancient and in perfect condition. He opened another pack. A microchip. The next four contained two more microchips, another coin (Roman, this time), and a selection of small but perfectly cut gemstones.

Brilliant. Moran was making a business on smuggling the very small, in a way that was virtually undetectable. But where was it going? Where did Moran conduct his business from? John pored over the ledger for the rest of the morning and early afternoon. There were no addresses. That would have been too much to ask, John supposed. There were inventory lists and appraisal values that would be very useful in connecting Moran to criminal activity, but he was worried about finding his friend alive, not busting a smuggling ring – at least not yet.

There were some margin notes, barely legible and in Croatian, from Mr. Božić that referenced locations. One was, unsurprisingly, Vienna. There were others. London. Cairo. Helsinki. Johannesburg. John sighed. He couldn't investigate all those places, and even if he tried, he'd need something more specific than just a city name. He had a feeling Moran would not be an easy man to find, even if he was right under John's nose. And even if he did find Moran, it was no guarantee he would find Sherlock.

He sighed with despair, and set himself to examining each pack in each carton in detail, for any hint of their destination. Maybe one of the microchips had the info, but he'd need a way to read it – he was sure his laptop was not up to the job. As he set to work on the second carton, he noticed a tiny scrawl on the bottom of one of the packs, in very faint pencil. He held it up to the light. He knew that spare handwriting! His heart leapt. Sherlock must have scribbled the note when he first inspected the merchandise.

This was the first concrete proof he had had of Sherlock's being solidly alive, and it was almost too much for him. John forced himself to keep it together. There would be time for emotional displays when he actually found him. He squinted at the tiny writing. It said "_Zagreb, Svibovac 27 – potkrovlje_". The first part was an address, he had picked up that much. The last word looked familiar, but he couldn't place it. He flipped open his laptop and typed it into Google Translate. "Top floor", of course! He had seen the same word on his room key when he checked in.

He downloaded directions for the address onto his smartphone and hurriedly cleaned up the mess he had made of the smuggler's goods, stashing everything in the bottom of the wardrobe and piling the room's extra quilt on top of them. Hopefully no one would search his room. He went out at once, locking up behind him and leaving word at the desk that he did not want to be called for supper, and that he wanted neither maid service or turn-down.

What would he find there? It was beyond all hope that he would find Sherlock himself. But there must be some reason Sherlock took the risk to leave the note in a place so easily findable by one of Moran's people. John only hoped he was smart enough to figure it out. Sherlock had a habit of over-estimating his powers of observation – flattering, but dangerous in this scenario. He stepped out into the cold, cloudy afternoon and, unconsciously turning his collar up against the wind, walked briskly towards his new destination.


	4. Chapter 4

The address was in a newer, but poorer part of the city, full of three and four story tenements built in the late 80's. Drab brick mostly, though here and there an attempt had been to brighten them up with coats of now-peeling paint. John found the correct building without too much trouble, a slightly decrepit piece of real estate, but scrupulously clean outside. There was a sign in the street level window that said "Room to Let" in several languages.

He knocked on the door, pulling his coat tightly around him. It was starting to shade towards evening and the wind was picking up. A middle aged woman dressed in a leopard print track-suit, wearing far too much make-up and costume jewelry, answered after a short wait. She said nothing, just gave him a suspicious look and took a drag on her cigarette.

"Um, good evening," John began. "I'm here about the room?"

She rolled her eyes, as if annoyed by his mere presence. "You want see room? Upstairs. No English," she said, grabbing a key off a hook by the door.

John followed her up three flights of crumbling cement stairs and she unlocked a door leading to a dingy attic studio. It was freezing up there, and completely empty except for a single bed and mattress, and a chair. His heart sank, but he made himself inspect every corner. There was no trace of its previous occupant. He turned to the woman.

"Was there a man here, a few weeks ago? Tall, dark hair, very quiet?"

She stared at him blankly, irritated.

"Right, no English," he muttered. He racked his brain. "_Italiano_? _Deutsch_?"

"_Deutsch,"_ she said grudgingly. "_Etwas._"

A bit, great. John's German was terrible but hopefully it was better than her English. "_Gab es einen Mann in diesem Raum? Vor zwei Wochen?_" he tried. Was there a man here, two weeks ago?

She nodded warily.

But how to be sure it was Sherlock? John certainly didn't have enough German to describe him. Suddenly he remembered, he had a picture of him on his phone from their Christmas party. He brought it up – him, and Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was even almost smiling there. He showed it to her, pointing to the man in the middle. "_Diese_?"

Her face lit up with recognition. "_Ja! Er verließ die Dinge für Sie_, you come!"

Left things? For John? He could hardly believe his luck. Then again, was it luck if Sherlock was behind it? He followed her gladly back down the stairs and into the basement of the house. It was filled with cardboard boxes, in various stages of decay. Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only tenant to leave things behind. She rummaged for a few minutes and then turned up a small box and handed it to John.

He opened it. It contained a pair of gloves, a sock, a battered Croatian phrasebook, a mostly empty tin of English tea, and an envelope labeled "Mycroft". John felt a faint moment of disappointment that Sherlock had not expected John to be the one to come and find him, but he pushed it aside. _Don't be petty,_ he told himself.

He realized the woman was staring at him expectantly. "_Er sagte, Sie zahlen_."

Of course Sherlock had told her Mycroft would pay her. John sighed, and slipped her the equivalent of fifty quid. She appeared mollified, though not thrilled. He pocketed the gloves, phrasebook, and letter, and asked her to toss the rest, and headed back for his lodgings.

As he exited the building onto the deserted street, he saw a stout figure turn a corner a block down, just a little too quickly. John's instincts kicked in and he took off running in that direction, turning the corner just in time to see the man disappear again. He swore. He must have been followed – that or the house had been watched. He was guessing both at this point. He kicked it into high gear and managed to gain ground on the man.

"Stop!" He shouted. "I'm armed!"

Two shots from the other man answered him and he swerved and drew his own weapon in response. The other man had the advantage of knowing the city, but John could see immediately he wasn't used to chases on foot. He was slowing. John silently blessed Sherlock for keeping him in shape on that count.

They turned down what looked like a street but quickly turned into the barest of alleys. There was a short wire fence half way down the length. John grinned. No sooner had the stranger halted to climb over it, a height John could have easily leapt over these days, than John was upon him. He wrested the gun out of his hand and punched him in the face with it.

"Who are you?" He demanded, as blood sprang up over the man's eye. "Why are you following me?"

The burly man struggled, but John had him pinned tightly against the fence. "I'm no one," he said in a London accent, grimacing.

"You work for Moran? Don't you?! How did you find me?" The man didn't answer. John punched him again, this time with his fist, square in the nose. "I'm not playing around. I have no problem with killing you right now if you don't tell me what's going on," he said, his voice going from loud and angry to low and calm with a frightening speed.

The man spat blood and laughed. "You are a formidable man, Dr. Watson, but there are many things more scary than you out there."

John hit him again, then raised the gun to the man's temple. "Do you really want to test that theory?"

He shrugged. "At least it will be quick."

"Don't bet on it." John moved the gun to the right, against the man's collarbone. "Do you want to find out how many bullets it takes to not kill you?"

Fear crossed the man's face, and he opened his mouth as if he was about to offer information. Before he could speak, John heard a soft sound and two darts zipped past him, one embedding itself in the wall inches from his head, and the other finding his opponent's throat.

John ducked and rolled himself and the man behind a small dumpster a few feet away that offered reasonable cover. He guessed he had about a minute before the sniper could make it down from his vantage point and to their location.

"Poison," the man croaked. "He hates poison but it's quieter."

"Tell me what I need to know," John pleaded. "Why keep loyalty to a man who just killed you? I can get revenge for you. Just tell me where to find him."

The man's eyes rolled up in head and he coughed, flecks of foam and blood splattering John's jacket. "Jyivsinkää." He managed. "Finland, far north, near Ivalo. There's a big estate. Find him before he finds you."

_He's already found me,_ John thought. The man said no more and went limp. He wasn't dead yet but John knew he couldn't have much more than a few minutes. Now that the initial rush of rage and adrenaline was fading, he felt guilty about leaving him to die alone in a dirty alleyway, but knew it couldn't be helped. Dying with him wouldn't do anything for him. He listened for footsteps and heard nothing. Taking a deep breath, he darted out from behind the dumpster, vaulted over the fence and ran blindly, turning at random down unfamiliar streets. It would be harder to follow him if he didn't have a destination in mind, and he had no idea where he was in any case.

He must have run for thirty minutes, twisting and turning, always listening and watching for any sign that he had been tracked. Finally he was satisfied that he had escaped, at least for the moment. It was dark now, and freezing. He was exhausted. He ducked into the first cheap-looking restaurant he saw and ordered hot coffee and soup. He needed to decide his next move. He obviously couldn't go back to his room – the man hadn't just been watching the house for anybody, he had known John's name. It would be ransacked by now, and all the stolen goods retrieved. It was even possible they would call the police on him and he would be wanted as a smuggler himself, though he guessed Moran would prefer to keep his activities off the radar altogether.

He was grateful his own paranoia had caused him to keep virtually all his things in his bag with him when he had left – he still had most of his clothes, his phone, his laptop, and his money. Assuming he could get out of the city without being detected, his next stop had to be Finland; if that really was where Moran was based, then Sherlock would likely be there. Suddenly, he remembered the letter in his pocket. He fumbled for it and ripped it open.

_M,_

_I am close on Moran's trail, but I am being followed. I have taken all reasonable precautions, but if you are reading this they have likely failed. I have not been able to deduce his whereabouts yet, but you may be able to follow the shipments to find out. The key to defeating him is in a safety deposit box at the Österreichische Postsparkasse in Vienna – there were no leads in Austria, but it was expedient to leave it there as I knew I might be captured in Zagreb. You will need the box number (six digits) and a password of ten letters to access it. John will know both, but will not realise it. You must get it out of him without his knowledge. _

_Do not tell John what has happened. If I do not return, it is best if he continues to think my death was some months ago. Please make sure Molly agrees to this as well. _

_SH._

"You fucking asshole," John muttered when he finished the letter. He knew Sherlock thought he was being kind to him, but it was still infuriating. And Molly knew he was alive? Of course she did – can't fake a proper death without help from someone in the morgue. And she wouldn't tell John if Sherlock asked her not to; she loved Sherlock, not John.

Looked like he was going to Vienna after all, assuming he could figure out what the hell Sherlock meant about him knowing the codes. How exactly had he expected Mycroft to extract information from John that John didn't even know he had? And without tipping him off as to why? The man was insane. Of course he had known that from the day they met and he had never stopped him from following Sherlock into hell before.

John drained his too-strong coffee. Best get out of town as soon as possible. There'd be plenty of time to mull over Sherlock's puzzle on the train. Then, once he had whatever blasted thing was in the deposit box, on to Finland to find Moran and hopefully Sherlock. He shivered. He was going to need some warmer clothes.

* * *

Sherlock awoke slowly, to darkness. He was stationary now. The last few times he had woken there had been motion – a train, a ship, then a truck of some kind. Each time he'd only had a few moments to gauge his whereabouts before being drugged again. He had no idea how much time had passed, but knew it must have been days at least. He knew they had been heading north, and must be quite a ways away from Croatia now, possibly in Scandinavia?

He couldn't think well. His brain was still fuzzy. He waited the length of a few breaths for the prick of the needle, but it didn't come. Wherever they had wanted to take him, he must be there. His head pounded, but he tried to assess his situation. From the air he could tell he was underground, but not far. Some kind of basement. He was sitting on something hard and cold, off of the floor, with his back to a wall of concrete. His hands were chained behind him and his feet were manacled together. He didn't think he could stand at the moment anyway – he was too weak.

He hoped Mycroft had gotten his message, and had been able to figure out where he was. If not, then no one was coming from him. He assumed Moran or one of his men needed to talk to him, otherwise he'd be dead already. But whatever they wanted, he didn't plan on giving it to them, so his life expectancy in captivity was likely limited.

For a moment, Sherlock had wished he had left something for John. He knew it was silly – John had been through enough, he didn't need to have to bury Sherlock twice. But for his own vanity, Sherlock wished there had been a chance to say something more to him, when their last conversation had been mostly lies. But this was better, for both of them, he told himself. And he wasn't done yet. He still might be able to return from the grave, go back to John and Mrs. Hudson and home.

Right. The first thing to do was get the blindfold off, then he could start on the chains.


	5. Chapter 5

John reached Vienna mid-morning the next day. He had spent the whole train ride mulling over Sherlock's puzzle. Blast that man. He understood that it hadn't been safe to write the information in a letter anyone might end up with, but since he was writing to Mycroft he might well have picked codes that Mycroft would know. Then John could have just _asked Mycroft_. As it was, John had considered calling him anyway but had decided that requesting help deciphering a code that was apparently hidden inside his own head would be too humiliating.

He had managed to reason out two things about the problem. First, that the box number must be a date. Six digits and something Sherlock thought John would know. Of course there was always the off chance that Sherlock thought John would know an obscure series of Tibetian runes which translated into a six-digit code for John favorite brand of tea, but there was only so much a normal human being could account for. Second, that whatever the box number and the password were, they must have some significance to both John and Sherlock, and none whatsoever to anyone else.

John was rather pleased with himself for getting that far, but now he was stuck, standing in the square before the hulking building that contained the headquarters of the _Österreichische Postsparkasse_, Austria's largest and most secure bank, still without either a box number or access code. It was a sunny day, but even colder than in Zagreb, the kind of bitter and biting cold that was not hindered at all by his thickest jumper and a leather jacket. Never mind that his only trousers were jeans. Not to put too fine a point on things, but he was freezing his bollocks off.

He couldn't go in there without at least an idea, something to try. And it was unlikely that he would get a second chance if he got it wrong – people who had safety deposit boxes in expensive banks typically kept rather close track of them, he imagined. What date would be significant to them both? They had been together nearly every day since the day they met, and quite a few memorable things had happened since th— Oh, of course. The date they met. That was easily the most significant date they shared, assuming he was following Sherlock's logic correctly. Well, it could also be the date of Sherlock's "death", but John hoped he hadn't been that morbid.

John couldn't think of anything else the box number could be. As for the password, that was trickier. John's own name was ten letters but that was far too obvious, even for him. Something to do with a case, perhaps, one of their last? "Baskerville" and "Reichenbach" had been the last big ones they solved together, both eleven letters. "Irene Adler" was ten letters, but she didn't have anything to do with John, unless Sherlock was in the mood to be cruel.

He thought desperately for several more minutes. He couldn't think of anything they shared that fit the number of letters. Maybe it was something about him, a description? Army Doctor? That was ten letters. He didn't feel totally confident about it, but he couldn't think of anything else that worked. He would have to give it a shot.

Taking a deep breath, he entered the huge bank. The lobby was gleaming, with white marble tile and a vaulted ceiling that went all the way to the top of the building, with all the floors visible from the center of the room. It smelled rich. Trying to act confident, he made his way to the reception desk, behind which sat a bored looking young man in a suit.

"Um, yes, hi," he began, out of his element. "I'm here about a safety deposit box."

"Safety deposit boxes are only available to current account holders," the man told him, barely making eye contact. His accent was very good – John was glad most people in Vienna spoke English well. It was going to be far more interesting trying to communicate in Finland, especially outside of a large city.

"No, I mean, I have one," John said. "Here. I need to get into it. Um, now."

The receptionist picked up the phone lazily and said something in German, too quickly for John to catch. Then he resumed ignoring John. John shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, assuming he was meant to wait. The lobby was designed to impress and not for comfort – there were no chairs or niches in which one could comfortably stand. And as it was drawing near lunch time, the place was nearly empty, leaving him standing alone in a huge room with a laconic twenty-year-old.

Just as the wait seemed to be growing interminable and John was debating whether pestering the receptionist would do him any good, he heard the click of sharp heels on stone. A severe looking woman in a perfectly tailored suit appeared. "Box number?" she said without preamble.

"What? Oh. 290110," he said, praying his guess was correct. He had hoped to avoid any sticky questions of his identity and ownership of the box and apparently he was going to. This did seem to be the kind of place that specialized in discretion, and Sherlock had probably chosen it precisely because they did not ask those sorts of questions, at least provided he had the right box number and password.

"This way." She spun on her heel and led him through a series of card-accessed double doors, and past quite a few guards, into the bowels of the building. Eventually they reached a room full of old-fashioned safety deposit boxes, with very new-looking computer security pads on them. Some of them appeared to be equipped with retina scanners as well, but thankfully #290110 seemed to only have a keypad.

"I must enter my code first," she explained. "Then you will enter your password and the box will open automatically. Excuse me."

She moved in front of him and carefully entered a long string of letters and numbers, shielding her fingers from his view. Then she motioned for him to do the same.

John took a deep breath. He wasn't even sure this was the right box. What if he had the right password but the wrong box? Or vise versa? How exactly was he supposed to talk himself out of this if they began to suspect him of attempted robbery? Oh well, too late to turn back now. With shaking hands he entered ARMYDOCTOR on the keypad. It emitted a hideous screech and he jumped back.

"That was the wrong code," the woman said unnecessarily, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. "Is there a problem?"

John laughed nervously. "Um, no, of course not. I just have a lot of boxes in different banks, and sometimes it's hard to remember which code goes to which one! Don't want to write it down, you understand…" he finished lamely.

"Indeed. We can try again when you are ready," she said coolly. "Although after two unsuccessful attempts, the box does institute a higher security protocol which requires a number of steps of identity verification before it can be opened again."

Of course it did. This was not good. John thought furiously, but he was out of ideas completely. Maybe this was the wrong box. Or maybe he just didn't know whatever goddamn thing Sherlock thought he knew. Did they have any in-jokes he hadn't thought of, something Sherlock would have found amusing to use as a password. Something about getting the milk? About John's blog?

Still nothing. She was tapping her foot impatiently. He said, "Oh, yes, of course, I'm ready," even though he wasn't. Once her code had been entered he stepped up to the keypad, mind blank. He cursed Sherlock and his cleverness. He was always more interested in being clever than in being human. John was constantly telling him… Ohhh. Suddenly John knew the answer.

He coughed and carefully typed in: BITNOTGOOD. The computer chirped happily and the box slid out soundlessly from the wall. John couldn't help himself – he laughed, a deep laugh from the bottom of his soul, for the first time since he had been parted from Sherlock. "Oh, that's good," he said. "I owe you an apology."

The bank lady was staring at him, this time with both eyebrows raised. "We can provide a room for you to view the contents in, if you will follow me."

"Um no, that's alright," John told her. He lifted the lid gingerly to see an unlabeled, padded mailing envelope. He snatched it out of the box and stuffed it inside his jacket. "I think I'm done here."

He exited the building as quickly as security would allow and forced himself to get several blocks away, to a small park, before he tore open the envelope.

On to his lap tumbled a black smartphone. For a brief second, John thought it was Sherlock's, but Sherlock's was silver. He turned it on and began looking through its contents. Slowly it dawned on him. It was Moriarty's! Sherlock must have pickpocketed him before jumping off the roof. And everything was here, all his criminal dealings and contacts, meticulously organized, spanning dozens of countries and activities from counterfeiting to espionage to murder. Sherlock was right, this could truly bring down Moran and the rest of Moriarty's network.

But why hadn't Sherlock just given it to Europol and let them do the work, John wondered. He could have sent it anonymously, if he was worried about being exposed as still alive or that he wouldn't be believed. It was true there was nothing there to blatantly clear Sherlock's name – though obviously Moriarty's, his name was frustratingly absent from the actual data. Sherlock must have meant to confront Moran with the information and use it to bargain for proof of his own innocence. Although given how things had turned out, a plan involving Moran's death seemed more likely.

Whatever the case, this phone was important and there were plenty of ways the information in it could be used, particularly if he met Moran. To get Sherlock back, for one thing, assuming it was Moran that had him. That was all John cared about at this point – he could worry about proving Sherlock wasn't a fraud and about his own safety later, but right now he needed to know Sherlock was alive.

Without stopping even for lunch, he hailed a taxi to the airport and booked a flight to Helsinki, pausing at the duty free to acquire several pairs of woolen long underwear, a parka, and various other cold-weather items. It would be dark and cold where he was going.

* * *

When someone finally entered his cell, Sherlock was sitting perched on the metal platform that was intended to serve as a bunk, his legs drawn up to his chest and his hands steepled under his nose. His eyes were closed.

"Here, how did you get out of your chains?" the guard exclaimed, dropping the tray of food he had been carrying and fumbling for his weapon.

"You had a screw loose," Sherlock said dryly, not moving. And indeed, on the floor next to his manacles and blindfold, there was one tiny screw that had been removed from the bunk supports.

"Alright now, let's just take it easy," the man said, waving his gun at Sherlock. "I'm going to come over there and put those cuffs back on you, and you're gonna stay still while I do it, okay?"

"I am taking it perfectly easy," Sherlock said, fixing his pale eyes on the quivering guard. "You on the other hand seem quite agitated. Panicked even. Are you quite well?"

"None of your talk, they warned me about you," the guard said, redoubling his grip on the gun as he came closer. "Stay still!"

He leaned over to pick up the manacles off the floor, trying to keep his gun steady and his eyes on Sherlock at the same time. His gaze only flickered away for a second, which was plenty of time for Sherlock to reach out almost lazily and disarm him by snapping his wrist with a loud crack. Before the man even knew what was happening, he was on the floor with his broken hand behind his back, Sherlock's foot on his neck, and his own gun aimed at the back of his head.

"See? Easy. Next time you have a prisoner who has mysteriously managed to escape from his bonds, may I suggest you call for back-up?" He glanced up at the ceiling, spotting the mostly likely place for the camera to be. "I'll just take tea, thanks," he said, smiling at it.

While not exactly prepared for the tranquilizer dart that hit him in the back of the neck, he could not honestly claim to be surprised by it either.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was not returned to his restraints, but any further entry into the cell was made by a pair of armed guards who warned him well away from the door prior to opening it and did not venture further in than was necessary to place food or water inside the cell. He did not eat, although he did drink tea when it was provided. This was not an act of protest so much as conformation to his habit of not eating while working. He considered himself to be very much still on the job.

After inspecting the room scrupulously for any means of exit short of charging the guards, and satisfying himself that the cell was indeed inescapable given his current means, Sherlock resumed his perch on the so-called bunk and his thinking. It took everything in him not to pace or fidget, but he would not give whoever was watching the satisfaction. Instead he went to his mind palace and tried to fully explore every possible outcome of his current predicament.

This situation continued for four days. Captivity grated on him, and not showing it was even more taxing. He could not understand what their purpose in holding him for so long without asking him any questions was. The only answer must be that the person who had ordered his kidnapping had not yet arrived.

It was hard enough to maintain a mental balance in idleness when he was in his own home, with his experiments and John to distract him. He knew his grip on sanity was tenuous at the best of times, and he was certain this bare cell was designed for the purposes of sensory deprivation to help push him over the edge. Or perhaps merely to ensure his tools of escape were limited. Either way the effect was the same and he could feel his self-imposed calm beginning to slip away, though of course he gave no outward sign of it.

Thankfully, on the fourth day, instead of what he had come to think of as his normal evening meal, he was brought a basin of water, soap, and a clean set of clothes. "Get washed and changed," one guard said gruffly, as the other kept Sherlock carefully in his sights.

"Why?" asked Sherlock, cocking his head.

"It doesn't matter, just do it!"

"Hmm. _No_."

"What?"

"I said no. I am not interested in getting washed or changed or doing anything else you tell me unless you give me a reason."

He waited for the incoming dart with equanimity and was not disappointed.

When he came to, he was no longer in his prison in the basement, but in what he gathered was the main floor of the same building, which had proved to be a large, richly furnished mansion. It was dark outside, but that meant little in terms of time given that Sherlock was nearly positive he was north of the Arctic Circle.

Sherlock was tied, rather tightly, to a large chair in a high-ceilinged room. The walls were lined with heads of large game animals – wolf, moose, lion, ibex, rhino. It was both impressive and disturbing. A fire roared in the large fireplace, but aside from Sherlock and the taxidermy the room was empty and remained so for several minutes. He tested his bonds, but whoever had secured him this time had done a superior job and the chair was far too heavy for him to tip over.

He had been washed and shaved, and was wearing a pair of trousers and a shirt which appeared to be his own, possibly salvaged from his luggage. He refused to dwell on who had done the washing and the dressing and concentrated on absorbing as much detail about his surroundings as possible. The owner of the house was certainly not interested in restraint – he was clearly vested in shoving a message of dominance down his guests' throats. That squared with Sherlock's profile of Moran.

And indeed it was not long before a man entered the room, striding in confidently and smiling when he saw Sherlock. He was tall, at least as tall as Sherlock, but where Sherlock was slender, this man was beefy and broad, well-muscled and clearly vain of it. Where Sherlock had curly dark hair and fair, almost pallid skin, this man was tan and ruddy, with a blonde crew-cut.

"Mr. Moran," Sherlock said calmly.

"Mr. Holmes." Moran inclined his head. "I apologize for the delay as well as the method of bringing you here. I was abroad and had to wrap up some business before I could return. I hope you will forgive my rudeness."

"You had me kidnapped out of my lodgings, transported across thousands of miles, drugged multiple times, imprisoned for days, restrained, drugged again, and…forcibly bathed. I'm not sure rude covers it."

Moran laughed. "You're as delightful as had been described to me," he said, pulling up a chair in front of Sherlock, but not too close.

"Why did you bring me here?" Sherlock asked.

"For the same reason you were tracking me. You have something I want, and you need things from me."

"Then why not just let me find you?"

"Because, based on your reputation, I assumed that it would end poorly for me. Hard to operate an international criminal network when one's head is no longer attached to one's neck."

Sherlock smiled darkly. "Then I've been described to you accurately, it would seem."

"Oh, Jim went on about you in great detail," Moran said, leaning back.

"Jim? Oh, I see."

"What?"

"You and Jim. I should have realised." Sherlock smirked.

Moran was discomfited but attempted not to show it. "And what do you think you realize?"

"You loved him, didn't you? Oh, but poor Sebastian, he didn't love you. Not the ideal foundation for a relationship…"

Moran shrugged nonchalantly. "It worked. Love wasn't something Jim went in for. I'm not even sure he was capable of it. Although his obsession with you made me wonder sometimes."

"So this is revenge."

"Oh, not at all. Jim's death was entirely of his own making. Just because you are involved with someone doesn't mean you don't realize when they are completely batty as well as devastatingly brilliant. Jim may not have cared about money or power or anything but his own schemes, which might well have been part of his success. But I very much do care about money and power, and I can assure you my reasons for bringing you here are strictly business-related."

"Well, consider me a captive audience," Sherlock said sardonically.

"Quite. Mr. Holmes, you have in your possession an item which is of great value to me. My proposition is very simple. Tell me where it is, and once I have it and have verified the contents, I will let you go home without any further interference, provide you agree to extend me the same courtesy. Now, what do you say, Mr. Holmes, shall we close the door on this rather upsetting chapter of both our lives?"

"No."

Moran did not appear terribly surprised. He rose and poured himself a drink. "And why is that, Mr. Holmes? It seems a perfectly reasonable offer to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "For several reasons, Mr. Moran. The first being that as a consulting detective it rather goes against my nature to leave the leader of an international crime syndicate free to operate without interference. In addition, I have quite a few plans for the item to which you are referring and I am afraid they'd be somewhat interrupted if I gave it to you. Not to mention the fact that you likely had a hand in killing several people and leaving my life in ruins, for which I still plan to repay you. And lastly, given the kind of man you are, I see no reason believe you will let me walk out of here alive under any circumstances."

"Oh, this is getting interesting," Moran said, settling back in the chair across from Sherlock, swirling his vodka in the glass. "Go on then. What kind of a man am I?"

Sherlock studied him for a moment, eyes roving over every inch of his person, taking in each detail before he fired off a list in his clipped and rapid tone.

"Beyond what I learned from your criminal files? You are a hunter, obviously, but you only like to hunt dangerous game – not just animals, but people and treasure as well, anything that makes you feel like you have bested a worthy opponent. You think this makes you courageous, but in fact you are a coward and never allow yourself to be in a situation where any real harm is likely to come to you. You want to be perceived as a leader of men and a gentleman criminal, but you bear far more resemblance to a thug, albeit a successful and moderately intelligent one, who employs other thugs and has ambition but no true brilliance.

"You want to be seen as a man of your word, but in reality you have no qualms about stabbing your partners in the back to get what you want, except perhaps Moriarty, who may have been the only person you actually loved in this world, other than yourself. You don't hesitate to use weapons such as poison or trickery, although you'd prefer everyone to believe that you're the type of man to kill 'honestly', in broad daylight, rather than hiding in shadows as you so often do. That's why you became a sniper and not a plain infantryman. You want the honor of a soldier but you don't like the risk. You enjoy cruelty and have always been ashamed that you do, which is why you were attracted to Moriarty, because he was the first person that didn't ask you to be anything other than what you are."

Moran's expression had not changed, but rather stayed frozen in a mask of genial interest, with hate slowly crystalising behind his brown eyes. "Go on," he said dangerously.

Sherlock continued. "Well, this is where I have to do a little real deduction; the first bit was painfully obviously to the most casual observer. The degree of effort to which you went to bring me here, rather than just waiting to capture me when I got close on my own, tells me that you are very concerned about what I know. You took no chances in allowing me to go free a second longer than you had to, and no chances on my escape either. You are scared of something, but what? You don't just want what I have because it will make you more powerful and successful…no, you are afraid of what will happen if you don't get it. Or worse, if someone else does…"

He narrowed his eyes and scrutinized Moran. "Oh, I see now… Moriarty never trusted you, did he? You were his second in command, but he never gave up his secrets to you. He's gone, but he didn't leave you in charge, at least not of more than a fraction of his dealings. In fact, the network itself has probably dissolved into a bunch of little independent operations, each run by power-grabbing toadies like you who stepped up before his body was even cold. Which means the kill order he left has probably been largely ineffective for at least a couple of months now, what with everyone at each other's throats and no central figure to bring them together."

"Oh, there is one, and that would be me," Moran said. He sounded confident but Sherlock could see he was rattled. "I just need the data on that phone to consolidate the operations and they will come to me like men in the desert come to an oasis."

"Consolidate or blackmail? The only reason anyone would follow you is if they thought you could destroy them – most of those operations will make far more money on their own without your 'protection' as you probably call it. No, your grip on any kind of power is shaky at best and you know that without something to command loyalty what little you have of it will slip through your fingers like so much sand. Moriarty knew you couldn't handle it, that's why all he gave you to run was a tiny little smuggling operation, to keep you out of the way. You weren't his partner, you were his _pet_."

"Enough!" said Moran, putting his glass down on the table with more force than was necessary. "You've had your fun there, and whether you are right or wrong really couldn't matter less to me. You are in my power, you have something I want, and you're going to give it to me. Or things will go very badly for you."

Sherlock gave him a piercing look. "You really only understand brute force, don't you? You have no mind for schemes or cajoling, or even how to play on another man's desires. You think that just because you're bigger and stronger and have more guns things will always go your way, don't you? Did you really learn nothing from sharing Jim Moriarty's bed for the better part of a decade? I have literally never met someone with less subtly. Do you actually just _do_ everything that comes into your head? What's that like?"

Moran got to his feet, no longer bothering to hide his anger. "You're going to pay for that, Mr. Holmes. But I don't want to let pleasure get in the way of business. Tell me where the phone is, and I will try to find some mercy in my heart."

"No."

Moran went to a desk at the other end of the room and removed a long knife, vaguely tribal looking. "Oh good, business and pleasure at the same time, then. Jim didn't like to get his hands dirty, but I do – that's what made us such a great match."

Sherlock forced himself not to recoil, not to give a hint of fear, as Moran advanced on him. "There's just one thing I've always been curious about," he said casually.

Moran stopped, inspecting the razor sharp blade. "And that is?"

"Jim Moriarty – that can't have been his real name. _Mori arti_. Dying art, to die from skill? He did love his little Latin jokes. So since we've established you're going to kill me at some point along the line, you might as well tell me what his real name was."

"You know… I have no idea."

"Somehow I thought you wouldn't," Sherlock said dryly. "It never even occurred to you before, had it?"

"Oh, this is going to be fun," Moran whispered, and caressed Sherlock's jaw with the knife point.

* * *

The flight to Helsinki was long, but the one from Helsinki to Ivalo was even longer, on a tiny 12-seat plane that was inadequately heated. John put on nearly every item of warm weather gear he owned at once, and huddled in his window seat, faintly nauseous. He was not prone to motion sickness in the slightest, but the stomach churning drops and turns of Scandinavian winter flying were something new to him entirely.

Meal service consisted of black coffee from a thermos and a selection of stale biscuits. John refused both, and sat brooding as darkness fell. This time of year it would be dark most of the day where he was going. It was only 2pm local time and already nearly pitch black. He wasn't sure if this would make his task easier or harder.

He _thought_ he could get a bus from Ivalo to Jyivsinkää when he arrived, although he wasn't totally clear on that part. There wasn't a lot of English information available online for such a small town. He'd have to try his luck though. There had to be some way to get there. Then he just had to locate Moran's compound, find a way in, catch Moran off guard, and find Sherlock.

"Piece of cake," he mumbled to himself, not at all optimistic. He had no idea how he was going to do any of that, but he hadn't come this far to give up. Sherlock was there, he was certain of it. And he was going to find him alive and unharmed. Then John might murder him for all he'd put him through, but that was really a low priority at this point.

He disembarked, shakily, at the Ivalo airport. Was it possible to get PTSD from an airplane ride? He stumbled outside, hoping for signs to indicate which way to the bus station. Glancing around in the dark, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned towards it, but before he could focus, he felt a sharp prick in the back of his neck and then blackness overtook him.


	7. Chapter 7

It was more than an hour later when Sherlock was returned to his cell, bloodied and bruised, though it felt like much longer. He had never actually been tortured before, at least not physically, though John often referred to the way he treated his own body as torture. He had a high threshold for pain, and Moran was not particularly creative – knives and fists, he wasn't even original in his cruelty – but he was surprised at his own visceral reaction to the experience. He wasn't used to being so fully in someone else's control, being violated in this way. He had retreated into his own mind as far as it was possible, but even he could not fully block out what was happening to his body.

He had known that this was a possibility of course, and he had accepted that his death once he was captured was more likely than not, but he didn't want to die like this, his life and dignity cut away one piece at a time until he could no long control himself, no longer keep the fear at bay. He wasn't scared of dying, but he was terrified of breaking. He knew his mind was stronger than Moran's, by far, and was ashamed at how quickly it seemed ready to betray him.

But he still held on to hope that he could think his way out of this. At least they were taking him out of his cell now, each trip a chance for escape or at least to learn something that might help him. And as time wore on and his tactics failed on Sherlock, Moran would become more and more angry and frustrated. He would be less careful, he would make a mistake. Hopefully that mistake would be something Sherlock could use, rather one that involved accidentally killing Sherlock before he got what he wanted.

Sherlock tended his own wounds as well as he could, given that he only had water and a spare shirt to clean them with, and attempted to get some sleep. It was against his nature to give into sleep in a situation like this, but he knew he needed to try to keep his body strong if he was to last. He ate some of the food provided as well. He hoped Mycroft had gotten his message and was on his way. It might be humiliating to be rescued by his big brother, but it was preferable to the alternative at this point.

The same pattern continued for the next three days. Moran would have Sherlock brought to him. They would talk, Moran trying to act like a reasonable, magnanimous criminal mastermind at the start. Sherlock would enrage him by reading him like a book, reciting everything shameful and hidden that he could deduce about the other man – from childhood fears to sexual quirks – and Moran would drop the pretense and try to extract the information from Sherlock by force.

By the fourth day, Sherlock was in bad shape. He was bruised head to toe, and was certain he had more than one cracked rib, as well as broken fingers and toes, several missing fingernails, two black eyes, and more shallow cuts than he could count. He knew he could not hang on much longer. He was beginning to hallucinate in his cell and suspected he had developed some kind of infection. He had begun thinking of ways to end it on his own in order to prevent Moran from having the satisfaction of beating him, but his cell was frustratingly bare and he was watched. He might be able to get one of the jumpier guards to shoot him, though, if he was smart about it.

He was proud that he hadn't given Moran any sign of how close he really was to losing it. Sherlock still greeted him with a sarcastic smile and his usual banter. He knew Moran couldn't stand the idea that his techniques were failing, although this had not yet made him try a new tactic. Therefore Sherlock was surprised when, on the fourth day, Moran sat down in front of him and said, "So. Here we are."

"That's a rather obvious statement, don't you think?" Sherlock managed.

"Mr. Holmes, you do impress me," Moran continued. "You don't look like a person with such inner reserves of strength, either mental or physical. And it's my experience that the really smart ones usually have no tolerance for such unpleasantness. Well, that or it gets them off. I have to say it, you are winning this one. If I keep going you'll likely die and then neither of us will get what we want. So, I'm trying something different."

"Letting me go and praying that I don't come back and slit your throat while you sleep?" Sherlock asked, brightening.

"Not quite." Moran stood and stalked the room lazily. "I'm going to add another player into the mix. Take a page out of Jim's book, since that was so very effective last time. You see, very shortly, perhaps already, my people will have their hands on one Dr. John Watson, and they have orders to bring him straight here, to me. To us. Won't you be happy to be reunited with your…friend?"

Sherlock's heart stopped. "What have you done?"

"Nothing yet. But it seems Dr. Watson has been doing some investigating on his own and is looking for you. I thought I'd help him along. And I am betting that while you'd rather die than lose to me, you'd rather do _anything _than lose your precious doctor."

Sherlock said nothing. He knew any response would give him away.

"In addition, there is this – I didn't think it too relevant since I was planning on killing you anyway, but it seems I may need an extra inducement, both for you and Dr. Watson, if he's as stubborn as you are." He held up a mobile. Sherlock's mobile, which he had left on the roof before he jumped. It had been supposed to reach Lestrade, his recorded conversation with Moriarty the only solid proof he had to clear his name when this was all over. Lestrade would have known what to do with it, kept it safe. Moran's people must have gotten to it before anyone else could, probably when they went searching Moriarty's body for the smartphone Sherlock had nicked.

"Think carefully, Mr. Holmes. Do you really want to die in disgrace? Do you really want to watch me put Dr. Watson through what I've just put you through? All for the sake of…what? Seeing me in jail? Having a little less international crime for a few years? Revenge on a dead man? I know you're prideful, but are you really that arrogant? There may yet be a way for both you and your companion to escape with your lives and perhaps even your reputations. I know Dr. Watson is very devoted to you, but I don't think even he would want you to gamble his life for the sake of proving your innocence and destroying me."

Sherlock began to laugh, very quietly at first and then louder, as though he had just gotten some great cosmic joke. He had thought he had been hallucinating again while Moran was speaking, but he now realized what he was actually seeing and he could not keep himself from chuckling at the utter absurdity of what was happening.

Moran looked confused and angry. "Why is that funny, Mr. Holmes? I'm quite serious about my intentions for Dr. Watson, I hope you believe that."

Sherlock managed to catch his breath and grinned. "Because, Sebastian – he's _right behind you_."

Moran heard the click of a gun being cocked at the exact moment Sherlock said the words, and froze. John had indeed slipped up silently behind him while he was speaking, moving so slowly and quietly, sticking so well to the shadows that even Sherlock had not noticed immediately, although he was not precisely at the height of his powers of observation.

"I'll take those," John said, keeping the barrel of his gun nestled in the back of Moran's skull as he relieved him of his weapons. "And that," he added, taking Sherlock's mobile out of his hand.

"You won't kill me," Moran said, though his voice shook. "You're a doctor."

"Then you clearly haven't read my file," John said, and clubbed him in the back of the head with the gun. He went down instantly, and John rushed over to Sherlock. He cut his bonds and barely caught him as he slid out of the chair, weak and having lost circulation.

John hadn't had time to fully register Sherlock's condition before, but now, as he propped him up on the floor, he could see the full extent of the damage. He gasped, horrified. The only thing that stopped him in that moment from putting a bullet in Moran's head was that the man wouldn't be awake to feel it.

"Sherlock…oh my God," he said, quickly cataloging Sherlock's injuries and taking his vitals. "What has he done?"

"I'm okay, John," Sherlock lied. "I'm fine."

"You have a fever, and…a lot of wounds…and broken bones…"John could read the story of the past weeks on Sherlock's body and his expression grew hard. He could see plainly Sherlock had probably had only another day or two if he hadn't come when he did.

"I swear, John, I really am fine. Well, I will be fine. Right as rain once you fix me up." Sherlock tried to sound chipper, though it took an effort. He really was in an extraordinary amount of pain.

All at once the full realization of where he was caught up to John. "You're alive," he breathed. "You are really alive. All that time I thought…" He choked back the emotion that was building inside of him. "I thought I'd lost you forever. And even after I found out, I didn't really believe…I couldn't…I didn't dare to hope…" He stopped, unable to go on.

Sherlock put an unsteady hand on his shoulder. "Forgive me, John. I had no idea you would be so affected."

John's eyes widened with sudden anger. "_Affected_? You bloody heartless son of a bitch! Affected? What the fuck did you think was going to happen? That I would just get on with my life and forget you? That I'd watch you end up a bloody wreck on the pavement and just be…_fine_? I swear if you weren't in such a bad way I'd give you a pummeling myself! Affected!" There were tears in his eyes now, and he didn't care. Three months of pent up grief and anger and confusion and relief were going to make their way out whether he wanted them to or not.

"I'm sorry, John. Truly." And he was, Sherlock realized. Usually when he apologized for something it was out of adherence to what seemed to be expected of him, or a desire for someone to stop being mad him. But now he realized he deeply regretted the hurt he had caused John. It had hurt him too, being away, unable to tell John the truth. He hadn't realized how much until now.

He reached out and pulled the doctor to him, wrapping his thin arms around John's chest and resting his chin in the crook of his shoulder. He hadn't even known he'd wanted to do that until he had his arms around John, but the need for physical contact, to reassure himself that this was real, was surprisingly strong.

John stiffened for a moment, still angry, then melted into the embrace, resting his own head beside Sherlock's and trying to steady his ragged breathing. He closed his eyes. "Just don't ever do it again," he said, voice trembling despite his best efforts.

Sherlock nodded. "You came for me," he said incredulously, and realized he was weeping as well, very softly, for only the second time since he was a small boy. John had also been the cause of the only other incident of genuine tears in his adult life. He hoped this wasn't going to become a habit.

"Of course I came for you. I left the instant Mycroft told me. I just wish I'd got here sooner."

They held each other for several minutes more, clinging to one another like children. The emotion was too raw and the relief too great for propriety to reassert itself just yet. When they had both managed to compose themselves, Sherlock smiled wryly. "Now, I have to agree with you that people really _would_ talk," he said, half joking.

John shook his head. "I think I've decided I no longer give a flying fuck about people talking," he said solemnly. He rose awkwardly to his knees. "I know what's important now," he said. Impulsively he pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead – a fierce but chaste kiss – then looked away, embarrassed, and scrambled to his feet.

Sherlock tried not to gape at him, both stunned and pleased at John's burst of affection. Somehow that one little act spoke as deeply to how much they meant to each other as their whole life together, as John's grief at his death and the words he had spoken after it, as the dangerous journey here to rescue him. And he realized the best thing he could do for John was to pretend it hadn't happened, at least for now.

John coughed. "So, what should we do about Moran? Slow torturing to death with many pointy objects?"

"Tempting," Sherlock admitted, carefully getting up as well. Blood flow had returned to his extremities and the rush of adrenaline and endorphins from John's appearance had given him a burst of strength.

"Well, whatever we do, we had better do it fast – you need a hospital, Sherlock, there's more damage than I can fix on my own."

"It looks worse than it is," Sherlock said dismissively. "Tie him up before he wakes. There must be medical supplies around here somewhere. What happened to the rest of the guards?"

"Killed 'em."

Sherlock looked at him as though he was mad and John snickered at his expression. "Only one, only because I had to. The others are sleeping off a nice dose of ketamine cocktail – which by the way is what they were shooting you up with – in the well-equipped and impenetrable cells downstairs."

"Nicely done," Sherlock said, then swayed.

"Whoa," John said steadying him. "You shouldn't be standing. Look, sit down and I'll take care of Moran."

For once Sherlock did as he was told. John dragged Moran to the next room and bound and gagged him expertly. Then he went on a hunt for a first aid kit. The place was surprisingly well stocked – he found bandages, antibiotics, surgical supplies, painkillers, and more. He grabbed what he thought he'd need and went back up to Sherlock. He was half lying on a couch, eyes closed.

"All right," John said. "Here, sit up. This will take awhile. Take these." He proffered Sherlock a handful of oxycontin.

Sherlock shook his head. "No drugs. I promised."

"Sherlock, for God's sakes this is not the time become a teetotaler!" John exclaimed. "I'm going to have to sew up some of those cuts and set at least four bones. I'm not subjecting you to any more pain than I have to. Now swallow the goddamn pills and take your shirt off!"

"John, those are literally the last two things I ever expected you to tell me," Sherlock said archly, taking the drugs. "Especially in the same sentence."

John snorted. "Oh, shut up." He proceeded to pump Sherlock full of the strongest antibiotics he had been able to find. The infection didn't appear serious, but it had gone too long untreated. Then he got to work, cleaning, stitching, and bandaging Sherlock. John could have used some first aid himself – it appeared not all of Moran's guards had gone down without a fight. His face and hands had several small cuts and he was rapidly developing a black eye.

"So, what did you do when my brother told you what happened? He was strictly forbidden to, by the way, I shall have to have a word with him."

"I punched him in the stomach," John said, a little smugly. Sherlock gave that little private smile he had when he was very pleased about something, and John filled him in on the events since he had left London. Sherlock seemed very nearly impressed with John's accomplishments and listened with remarkably few interruptions.

"Moran seemed pretty certain he would have you soon, if his men didn't already," Sherlock commented. "But you thought you lost them back in Zagreb. How did you manage to get past them this time?"

John scratched his head. "Well, I didn't really. They nabbed me almost the moment I got off that horrific little plane at Ivalo. Lucky for me they apparently weren't his best guys – they underestimated the dosage they needed to keep me under and I woke up in the back of the truck halfway here. There were only two guys and neither was paying a lot of attention to me. It didn't take long to get a weapon away from them and hijack the truck. In fact, it worked out rather brilliantly. I never would have got into this compound without their passkeys. It was pretty easy to ambush the rest of the guards once I was inside."

"Well, apparently I should have planned on having you come to my aid all along," Sherlock said. "Mycroft was dead useless. You're a one man army, you are."

John still wanted Sherlock to go to a hospital, but the nearest one was miles away and he had to concede Sherlock's point that there was no way to escape police involvement if he was seen in his state. Telling a Finnish doctor he had walked into a door would not cut it. John was able to tape up his ribs and other broken bones fairly well, and satisfied himself that there was no serious internal injury. Sherlock still looked a sorry figure, though.

"Let's go home, Sherlock." John said. "Right now."

Sherlock sighed. He wasn't looking forward to this part. "I can't. Not yet."

John looked at him incredulously. "Are you serious? We have the phone full of incriminating evidence about Moran and all Moriarty's other accomplices, as well as the _other_ phone which has enough proof on it to clear your name entirely! I say we drop one with Europol, one with Lestrade, and go back to Baker Street and do nothing but sleep and watch telly for a week!"

"As appealing as that sounds... I need to make sure that every bit of Moriarty's legacy is gone. What if someone else like Moran decides to try and grab power? The police won't do enough, they won't get at the inner structure. I need to use what's on this phone to get them to destroy themselves, to make absolutely sure that not a shred of it survives, that the kill order can never be revived, that no one is left who even remembers our names." Sherlock's voice was firm. "I am not doing this again, I have to finish it this time."

John nodded reluctantly. "Oh, you're probably right. Where do we go first?"

"Not you. Just me."

"Bloody hell, I don't think so! Not after what you've put me through. I am not letting you out of my sight." John was furious.

"John, your company would be…most welcome," Sherlock admitted. "And it would certainly be easier having your skills, both medical and military, at my disposal. But I need to take them by surprise. If they didn't think I was dead before, they certainly do now. I have a plan to take care of that with the relevant individuals, but to the rest of the world things have to look normal. No one can know what I'm doing. I need you to go back to London and continue to act as if… as if I died those months ago, as if nothing has changed. Take my mobile, keep it safe until I return. Or… well, if something happens to me I would appreciate if you would make sure that the record is set straight."

"No," John shook his head. "Absolutely not. I don't care what kind of sense it makes, I am not letting you traipse off into danger on your own while I sit at home, pretending to mourn you, wondering whether you're alive or dead!"

"John, be reasonable…"

"Damn reason! I can't go through that again. I'm going where you're going."

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders. "This is the only way. You have to know that. I promise, I will stay in touch, I will let you know if I'm in trouble. I need to know you're safe, and that there's someone back home who will come for me, no matter what. You won't be able to help me if you're in trouble with me. It won't be like last time, because I'm alive and you know it."

John shrugged him off. "Fine," he said at last, bitterly. "But if I don't hear from you, I am coming after you and good luck getting rid of me then."

"Duly noted." Sherlock could tell John was still angry, but it was the most logical way. And the safest, at least for John, if not for him. It wasn't that he didn't believe in John's abilities – quite the opposite. But he couldn't afford to have John used against him again, and that would be a risk until he had completely eliminated all of Moriarty's associates.

"Now what, then?" John asked, still sullen.

They went downstairs, both armed with some of the more impressive looking, non-tranquilizer guns from Moran's armory.

"You lot!" Sherlock shouted at the groggy thugs. "As you may have noticed, Mr. Moran is no longer in charge here. You have three choices. You can leave here on foot, scatter to the winds, and find more gainful forms of employment. You can stay here and explain to Mr. Moran why you let his home be so easily taken by a single, rather shortish man. Or I can shoot you. You have thirty seconds."

"Hey!" said John at 'shortish'.

"A term of endearment," Sherlock assured him, as they watched the men scramble for their parkas and rush out the door Sherlock had helpfully propped open. No one seemed interested in options B or C.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" John said.

"Preferable to getting the police involved at this point. None of those men had any real spirit or ambition, and hopefully they'll choose a better master next time. Of course some may get lost in the snow and die before they can get to town, but what I gave them was better than what Moran would have."

They went back upstairs to the room John had secured Moran in. He was awake, and struggled against his bonds when he saw them.

"Ah, Sebastian," Sherlock said cheerfully. "Glad you're up! There are so many things I would love to talk to you about, but sadly, our time is limited." He removed the gag from Moran's mouth.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked, trying to sound defiant, but with fear writ large in his features.

"Me? No, not at all. He might, though." Sherlock motioned to John, and Moran cringed visibly. "But I thought instead I would offer you a business proposition, since you are so fond of them. In exchange for my letting you go and not allowing John here to kill you in the manner he so chooses, you will leave here and never return. You will make no attempt to resume your previous activities, and you will vanish from any of Moriarty's remaining investment interests like morning dew."

Moran looked at him skeptically. "That's it?"

Sherlock dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "That, and where ever you go, you will tell anyone who has worked for you or Moriarty or who might have any connection with any of Moriarty's plans regarding me, that at the first sign of any attempt to follow through on threats to my life, my reputation, John's life, or the life or livelihoods of any of my associates I will hunt them down and repay them in kind for whatever they've done, as well as for every cut, blow, and broken bone that you have given me. And then I will do the same to you. And then I will let John kill you. Does that sound like a fair deal, _Sebastian?_"

Moran gulped, and nodded in terror. John and Sherlock marched him outside. "Take that truck," Sherlock said, motioning to a vehicle waiting by the gate. "Spread the good word."

They kept their guns trained on him as he crossed the courtyard and made his way towards the truck, shivering. He had almost reached it, when without warning John cocked his rifle and fired, grazing Moran's shoulder. He yelped and dove for the truck, starting it and peeling out with impressive speed.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John looked unabashed. "I owed him that," he said grimly. "At least. I don't like letting him go. I'm not one to actually kill someone in cold blood, but after what he's done to you… He's too dangerous!"

"He's a coward," said Sherlock. "He'll suffer more from the terror of thinking I will hunt him down again one day, than from anything you or I might actually do to him. And his fear will breed more fear. And if it comes to it, I _can_ actually hunt him down later and take care of him."

Together they searched the house for any paperwork Moran had left behind. Sherlock took his laptop and financial records. "This won't have any information about Moriarty's people that I don't already have, but I'll have Moran bankrupted before he can get out of the country."

Then Sherlock set fire to the house. "Well, that's a pretty clear bugger off message," John said, as they drove away from the inferno in the other truck. "Are you sure you aren't planning on becoming some kind of supervillian? You'd be good at it."

"Thank you," said Sherlock graciously. "But I feel that I showed a rather large amount of compassion, all things considered."

John couldn't argue with that. They parted ways, reluctantly, when they reached Jyivsinkää. Sherlock would not tell John where he was headed next.

"Look, you have to promise to let me know where you are, okay?" Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John talked over him. "Yes, I know it's not safe, someone might find out, blah blah blah. Are you seriously telling me that genius like you can't figure out how to communicate your basic location on the planet to me without anyone knowing? Not. Negotiable."

"Yes, John," Sherlock said obediently, earning a suspicious look from John.

"You have a lot of healing to do. I still don't like any of this. I can't...I don't want to have to come after you again, is all. Oh, here – I've got your gloves." He fished in his pocket and pulled out the pair of leather gloves from the box he'd been given. "You left them. Too big for me."

Sherlock took the gloves and put them on.

"Just be… be careful." John said, gruffly.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't know what to say at a moment like this. Normally he found it easy to do what had to be done, but he had to admit the encounter with Moran had affected him more than he wanted to admit. Even though he knew it was the right decision, he found himself reluctant to leave John once more.

They stood there awkwardly, not saying a lot of things. Finally, Sherlock threw his arms around John in a stiff hug, then turned and fled the bus terminal before John could react.

Not sure whether to feel morose and abandoned, afraid for both of them, or thrilled his friend was alive, John made his way slowly back home via two busses, three planes, and a taxi. The flat was dark and empty when he got in, and he had rarely felt lonelier. He wished he could tell someone, anyone, about Sherlock but he knew even confiding in Sarah was risky. He was exhausted but couldn't bring himself to go to bed just yet. He put the kettle on and opened his laptop wearily.

He had a single email waiting. The address was blocked and there was no subject. He clicked on it.

_Alive. Budapest. Home soon. _

_I promise.  
SH._

John smiled despite himself. "You'd better be," he said, reading the lines over and over. It couldn't be soon enough.


End file.
